


Moments Like These

by Jynxxy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pre and Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1282468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jynxxy/pseuds/Jynxxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Moments before and after the Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moments Like These

The yellow painted smile stood out against the green and white wallpaper, gazing down at the pale consulting detective. Sherlock draped himself on the velvet brown couch, his elegant fingers resting under his chin. The pathetic sunlight tried to push through the grey London clouds, falling on Sherlock’s impossibly high cheekbones as he explained his deduction to John. John’s blue eyes widened with each word that floated from Sherlock’s mind into the air. John stared at the only consulting detective in the world in amazement while Sherlock’s hawk-like gaze remained glued to the bland brown ceiling.

John loved moments like these.

The moment Sherlock grabs his handcuffed arm, as they seem to fly through the grunge of a back alleyway, chasing the mysterious killer.

The moment Sherlock absentmindedly insults someone’s intelligence; not caring about their humiliated rage and John is left to apologize.

The moment John is strapped into a bomb jacket, his fear and adrenaline fighting for dominance in John’s frantic mind, and Sherlock is there to save him. Always.

Moments like these felt perfect, special, eternal.

But every moment has its end, crashing down like Sherlock’s body did when he jumped from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s hospital. How ironic, killing yourself from a place of healing, a place where lives are saved. But Sherlock couldn’t be saved.

The pale yellow smile has faded now, and seems to leer at John when he traces the bullet holes with his eyes, a constant reminder that Sherlock is dead.

That Sherlock won’t ever be there to shoot the wall again, simply because he hadn’t had a murder to solve in almost a whole day.

That Sherlock won’t ever berate him for seeing but not observing, for not already knowing it was the victim’s wife who had poisoned his wine.

That Sherlock won’t ever burst through the green door, his black coat billowing around his tall, gaunt figure as he yells at John to grab his coat.

John’s sight clouds, as he gazes around the room at Sherlock’s belongings, holding back the feelings like a true soldier would. Sometimes, when John has one of his especially gruesome night terrors about Sherlock’s skull cracking against the concrete pavement, he goes into his flat mate’s bedroom. Breathing in the fading scent of cigarette smoke, poisonous chemicals and whatever it was that made Sherlock unique, John would sit at the foot of the forever unmade bed, his knees drawn up close to his chin, unable to hold his feelings in anymore.

He would look out the window onto Baker Street, and for a moment, just one fleeting moment, he would see a tall figure wearing a billowing coat, but when John would look back, the dark figure would be gone. Moments like these occurred often, and they would leave John standing in the empty flat, feeling even emptier. I’m so sorry John; He imagined Sherlock’s soft voice echoing. _I had no idea you would be so affected._

Moment like these felt daunting, painful, terrifying.


End file.
